The World Is Ugly
by HarleyMarie
Summary: <html><head></head>With the rise of the Confederate States of America, Alfred F. Jones must make his hardest decision yet: To let his people go, or to wage a bloody war that is ultimately against himself.</html>
1. The Year It All Began

**This is a collaboration between my friend Amanda and I. We both greatly appreciate you, the reader, for taking the time to read. Without you, none of this would be possible. Thank you and enjoy!**

**We are reposting this chapter due to the problems in the text it was having. We are sorry for the inconvenience and hope that it does not happen anymore. **

_It's hard to win… When the enemy is yourself._

-x-x-x-

The sun was shining pleasantly on this Monday morning. An unusually warm breeze for this time of year meandered through the trees, whose budding branches added a flowery aroma to the wind. With better weather than could be wished for, it was quite unlike him to remain indoors on such a day as this. However, it could not be helped, considering the circumstances.

Despite the glare from the sunlight making it difficult to see out of the window, he decided that this was as good a view as any of the proceedings below. Even from this height above the masses, he could still hear the humming of thousands of voices, all excitedly talking at once. And while all of the souls below him were eager to catch a glimpse of the soon-to-be sixteenth President of the United States, his heart was heavy.

Never in his life had he had to deal with so much unrest among the people. He hadn't slept in days. He could always hear them, screaming at each other about injustice and lack of freedom. No matter what anyone proposed, it was immediately shot down and deemed unfair. No one was innocent in this though, and the escalation of accusations and threats had been growing steadily over the past few years and months, all leading up to today.

The tragedy of December and the last four months had rocked him to the core, and he was almost at a loss for what to do. Here was his salvation.

Today, he hoped, would see an end to it all. Although he knew, in his heart of hearts, that that was impossible. Today was only the beginning.

A hush fell over the crowd below, and the man in the window straightened. This was the moment he had decided would either make or break the nation beyond repair.

He watched closely as Abraham Lincoln stepped up to the podium, where the Chief Justice awaited him, Bible in hand. There, he placed his left hand on the Bible, raised his right hand, opened his mouth, and clearly so that even the man in the window could hear, he said:

"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."

His hand still on the Bible, he closed his eyes and declared with emotion, "So help me God."

The man in the window sighed heavily as a roar erupted from the horde below. If anyone had been in the room with him, they would have heard the man whisper, "God has deserted this land. There is no help to be found."

The man in the window continued to watch as Lincoln delivered his Inaugural Address. He remained emotionless, face as unreadable and hard as stone. Even after Lincoln deserted the podium, the man in the window did not turn away, but he only took to watching the people below.

A knock sounded at the door some time later.

"Yes?" the man asked, only half interested now. His attentions were focused on one lady in particular, who had deemed it appropriate to wear an obnoxiously large hat covered in flowers. It appeared that she was busy shooing off bees that kept wanting to land on her head.

"The President is here to see you."

The man did not face the door, but only replied, "Send him in."

The knob turned, and the door squealed open. Footsteps. The squeal of the door as it shut.

Neither of them moved for a full ten seconds. The man at the window finally pulled himself away from watching the lady below to adjust his suit jacket, then a piece of blonde hair that had fallen into his eyes. He turned, his right hand extended, to face the President.

"May I be the first to congratulate you on your inauguration, Mr. President."

"Thank you," Lincoln said with a warm smile as he shook the man's hand. "However, I do not believe I have officially had the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"My apologies, sir." The man smiled in return, only it was half-hearted and heavy. "Alfred F. Jones, Personification of this great Union."

-x-x-x-

_Four months earlier… _

Marion Harris, or better known by her people as the personification of the state of South Carolina, sat at her writing desk in a corner of her parlor, weeping. Her silent sobs racked her small frame with every breath she drew in, and her fingers curled into her disheveled hair, trying to grasp at something, anything.

They just wouldn't stop. The screaming voices of her people, constantly calling for her to do something. Anything. As if she could do anything with them giving her not even a moment's respite so she could think.

She had been sitting at this desk, paper and pen before her and ready to write, for two hours. However, every time she picked up her pen, she couldn't accurately put to paper what she wanted to say. She had lost count of how many drafts she had balled up and thrown angrily to the side. To be entirely frank, she was sick and tired of dealing with everyone. All she wanted was for the voices to stop…

She had sent a letter to her sister, Olivia, explaining to her the situation. Olivia had written back , saying that she was having the very same problems. Her people were restless, and they wanted to see something happen now, and the thing that scared her most was the fact that they didn't really care what happened, as long as it was something.

Olivia had suggested for her to hang on and wait it out, but today, Marion had finally reached her breaking point.

She was done.

"Fine!" she screamed to no one, and yet to everyone and anyone. "You want me to do something, here you go! Here's something!"

As soon as she put her pen to the paper, she couldn't stop. Every complaint that her people screamed in her head came out onto that paper. She didn't leave a thing out. Every slave issue, every rights issue, everything that her people had complained to her about was poured out onto that paper.

As she came to the final line, she paused and allowed her hand to linger. Was this the right thing to do? Did her people really know what they were asking for? Was this move too drastic, too much? What if this was a mistake? There was time to turn back, to pretend that this never happened.

No. This was what her people were calling for. She didn't have a choice.

At the bottom of the page, Marion Harris, personification of the state of South Carolina, signed her name. The instant her pen lifted from the page, every screaming voice in her head became silent. The change was so sudden, she nearly dropped her pen in shock. She waited for a few seconds, expecting the voices to return, but they remained silent. This silence scared Marion more than anything.

With the realization that turning back now was impossible, she quickly folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, sealed, and addressed it. She then called a servant, a teenaged girl by the name of Evaline, to take the letter to the post office for her. After Evaline had left, and the house was silent once again, Marion put her head back in her hands.

In a tiny voice that was nearly inaudible, she whispered, "Are you happy now?"

There was no answer, and Marion was more alone than she had ever been. Hot and angry tears began to flow again, although it wasn't as if it really mattered to her anymore.

That's when she heard them.

Tiny footsteps, and a small creak of wooden floorboards behind her. Then, a small voice. A child's voice, accented with what was unmistakably a Southern twang.

"Please don't cry, miss."

Marion turned around quickly, quite startled. She expected a slave to stand in the doorway, but was surprised to see a small white child. He appeared to be only six or seven, with dirty blonde hair that fell just below his eyebrows and covered his ears. Freckles dusted his nose and cheeks, and his skin was a healthy bronze, as if from time in the sun. What stood out to Marion were the child's piercing eyes, which were a strange mixture of blue and green. He was dressed only in a pair of faded blue overalls, with one strap unclasped and hanging behind him. He was barefoot.

"Please miss, don't cry."

Marion distractedly wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, in awe of this strange child. "Where…?" she stammered. "Who…?"

The boy furrowed his brow questioningly, clearly confused.

"What I mean to say is…" Marion paused, then took a deep breath. "What's your name, son?"

The boy grinned widely, his smile lighting up his eyes. "I'm Samuel. Samuel Lee Jones!"

"And where are you from, Samuel?"

The boy furrowed his brow again. He looked disappointed. "Don't you know miss?"

Now it was Marion's turn to be confused. "I'm sorry Samuel, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Miss," Samuel said, suddenly quite serious, "I'm the personification of the Confederate States of America."

-x-x-x-

At this exact time, Alfred F. Jones was out in the White House garden, enjoying the brisk afternoon air. He had always loved Christmas time, especially here at the White House. Everything was decorated with red and gold ribbon, crystal, and silver tinsel. The pervasive and sharp scent of evergreen boughs had reached every corner of the house, and the feel of the holidays had penetrated even the most dreary and lonely of offices.

Alfred paused in his walk down the path to watch the falling of a snowflake. Snowflakes had always fascinated him in their purity and brevity. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, melted into nothingness, never to be recalled again.

A memory that had long since been forgotten welled up inside of him again, and Alfred was for a moment lost in the recesses of his mind. He was a young child again, still only a colony of England. It was his first winter, and Arthur was with him. The only thing that Alfred could remember about that winter was this single memory.

Nothing extraordinary happened, yet extraordinary wasn't a word nearly powerful enough to describe it.

_Alfred was sitting on Arthur's lap, and they were perched on a brick wall, watching the first snowflakes of the year fall silently on the barren ground before them. Alfred was smiling broadly, his face hurting from the chill of the air and from smiling so much. Arthur was smiling softly, and they were both happy to just be in each other's company. _

"_Look Alfred," Arthur whispered as he reached his hand out. On his fingertip, he caught a tiny snowflake. Alfred gasped in wonder, and Arthur pulled his hand close. "See this snowflake?" Alfred grabbed at Arthur's hand and held it in his own tiny ones. "It's the only one like it in the world. There'll never be another one that looks exactly like it ever again." As he spoke, the snowflake melted into a drop of water on the end of his finger. Alfred sighed sadly, then looked up at Arthur, his eyes misty and on the verge of tears. _

_Arthur smiled. "There's no need to cry, Alfred. Just remember this: Never fail to see the beauty in the little things, because before you know it, they'll be gone, much like this snowflake, and another moment like that will never come again."_

A stab of pain in Alfred's chest wrenched him from the memory, and it faded as quickly as the snowflake did on that day. He gasped loudly, and his face contorted into a painful grimace. There it was again, but worse. Alfred grabbed at his coat over where his heart was, and he couldn't hold it in. He screamed. He fell to his knees. He cursed. He bent over until his face was in the freshly fallen snow on the ground. Hot tears of pain streamed from his eyes, and all he could do was scream into the snow, which was falling faster by the minute. Someone came and tried to help him up, but when he tried to straighten, the pain redoubled and shot through his chest and stomach, sending him back into the snow.

"Mr. Jones, sir, please, what's wrong?"

Alfred shook his head, but he knew exactly what was wrong. "I need… to speak to… the… President…" he said through clenched teeth. Another cry escaped his lips, and the person-whoever it was, Alfred didn't look-ran off to deliver his message to the President. Now he was alone, the snow falling silently all around him. In the crushing solitude, Alfred began to weep. _Arthur, _he thought, _If this is what I did to you when I left you, then God forgive me._

-x-x-x-

Marion wasted no time. Within an hour, little Samuel was bathed, his hair combed. His dingy overalls were replaced with a pressed white shirt and dark trousers. Marion even found a pair of black leather shoes that were his size.

As she stood behind Samuel before the full length mirror in her bedroom, Marion was beaming with pride. "Now," she smiled broadly, "Now you look like a young nation."

Samuel didn't reply. Instead, he gazed at his transformed self in silence. He looked pensively at the reflection that was supposedly him with a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

Marion was convinced that she had done exceedingly well. However, she wasn't sure Samuel was entirely on board with her vision.

The longer Samuel stood before his reflection in silence, the more Marion began to doubt whether this was the best idea. _I only just met the child, _she thought, _and the first thing I do is change him completely. _

She had begun to falter in her resolve and confidence in her work when Samuel reached his little hand up, slender fingers extended, toward the mirror. His fingertips gently brushed the cool glass where his face was reflected. He traced the outline of his nose, his chin, and his cheek, slowly and deliberately. His face suddenly became hard. His jaw clenched, he brought his hands up to his straw-colored hair, which was parted to the side. He ran his fingers back through it, erasing the part and smoothing it back. This completed, he dropped his hands back down to his sides. A smirk replaced his shadow of a frown as he turned his eyes up to meet Marion's in the mirror.

"Yes, ma'am, I do."

Marion smiled cautiously and patted his shoulders before she spun around and left the room. "Your room is at the end of the hall. Let me know if you need anything."

Samuel listened to her hurried footfalls on the stairs. When they had faded into silence, his smirk disappeared. The confident Samuel Lee Jones, face of the newly formed Confederate States of America, was gone now. A scared little boy only remained.

The angry voices were loud, and he couldn't make them quiet. They kept saying something about 'bringing our brothers in' and needing more people to 'join the cause'.

What exactly that cause was, Samuel had no earthly idea.

One voice cried out something that shot a spike of fear through his heart.

"The only good Yank is a dead one!"

And that's when they all started at once. Cries for war, death, destruction.

Samuel became frightened, and became downright terrified when he couldn't make the voices stop talking of such things.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

Samuel sprinted out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the room Marion had said was his. He whipped the door open and slammed it shut behind him. He didn't care that the sound was loud, that it echoed through the entire house. The second the door was shut, he ran to the corner of the room, slid down against the wall until he was sitting, held his knees, and began to cry. "Please…" he whispered in between quiet sobs, "…make them stop…"

He would soon learn that these prayers are seldom answered.


	2. A Shattered Christmas

**Thanks to those of you who read our story, we really appreciate it! Y'all taking the time to read our story means so much to us, and so we just want to let you know just how much we appreciate you!**

**So, without further ado, we give you chapter two. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: A Shattered Christmas<strong>

Christmas Day was approaching quickly. Marion didn't really have anything prepared to give to a seven-year-old, so she went out on a frosty Christmas Eve, bundled up in a coat, scarf, and gloves, in search of the perfect Christmas present for Samuel, who she had taken to calling Sammy. She had found that he liked to play outside with some of the young slaves, and that he also loved to read. She had found him the morning after she had taken him in, fast asleep on the couch in her library, with a copy of Herman Melville's Moby Dick open on his lap. Sammy had made significant progress, a couple hundred pages. She had been astounded that the boy had read so much in only one night, and frankly, that he could even read at all. As a matter of fact, she didn't learn to read until she was much older. That, of course, was not a thing that she broadcasted to everyone as public knowledge.

Knowing this, Marion stepped into the used bookshop. Inside, it was warm from a fireplace in the corner, and smelled musty and old. An aged man, whose wrinkled skin appeared to have been draped over his tiny frame like a sheet, stood from his chair by the fire. "May I help you, ma'am?" he asked.

"Yes, I'd like to know if you have a book by the name of… A Tale of Two Cities?" Marion inquired about this book in particular because… Well if she were honest, it was the first book that came to her mind at the moment. As it was said before, she had had little time to prepare for Christmas.

"Yes ma'am, I happen to have one right here," the man smiled. He shuffled across the creaking wood floor to a shelf along the back wall, where he reached above his head and withdrew an old, leather-bound book. He weighed it in his hands, then turned and handed it to Marion. "Does this satisfy you?"

Marion took the book and leafed through it. She nodded, paid the man, and walked out of the bookshop with an air of confidence.

With Christmas tomorrow, she felt she had done exceedingly well.

-x-x-x-

Meanwhile, Sammy had been passing the time with a negro slave called Eli, whom he had befriended on his first day in Marion's house. Sammy had gone outside after his cry and, because he wasn't paying attention, walked straight into Eli. Upon first laying eyes on him, Sammy was quite startled. And for good reason. While Eli was only about seventeen, he was huge. His broad shoulders were muscular and strong, along with the rest of his body. When Sammy had walked into his leg, Eli had looked down and, upon not recognizing him, smiled warmly down at him.

"Don reckon I know ya', son. They call me Eli. What they call you?"

Sammy, not knowing what to do, just stared up at the towering figure before him. Eli broke the silence between them.

"You been cryin'?"

Sammy opened his mouth to protest, but stopped when Eli raised an eyebrow questioningly. He then sighed and hung his head.

Eli stooped down so they were on eye-level, more or less. "Don you be ashamed o' cryin', son." He tilted Sammy's chin up with his massive finger so that their eyes met. "Some o' the time, tears c'n be good."

Sammy sniffed, and when Eli smiled warmly once again, he allowed himself to smile back.

In that moment, any apprehension Sammy had about this man was gone.

"You go'n anyplace special right now?" Eli asked. Sammy shook his head. Eli drew himself up to his full height and put his massive hand, which Sammy took. "You c'n come with me if ya' wanna." Sammy smiled, then spoke for the first time.

"They call me Sammy."

Eli smiled broadly, showing his ivory teeth which contrasted so starkly with the ebony of his skin. "You got yoself a nice name there, Sammy."

Sammy grinned, and the two went off together. For the first time, Sammy was happy. _Eli is big, _Sammy thought. _Maybe he's so big, he can make the mean people in my head go away. _And, in a sense, he could. Whenever the two were together, which was most of the time from then on, Sammy couldn't hear the angry voices in his head. And little Sammy was happy.

Oh, how short happiness lasts.

-x-x-x-

Sammy woke up early on Christmas morning, long before the sun had risen above the horizon. He couldn't be more excited for his first Christmas.

Although, it seemed, Marion wasn't quite as enthusiastic as he was.

Sammy waited outside of Marion's door for her to open it, giving him that unspoken permission to race down the stairs to the treasures that surely awaited him below.

Sammy waited and waited. But her door never opened. So he sat there, back against the wall, watching the light in the cold hallway change from black, to gray, to pink with the rising of the sun.

By the time the sun had fully cleared the trees outside, Sammy stood up and strode downstairs alone. The house was silent. The slaves were in their shacks further away because they had the day off, leaving only Marion and Sammy in this great and empty house. He didn't even glance in the direction of the Christmas tree when he passed. Instead, he made a beeline for the back porch.

The second he opened the back door, Sammy instantly wished that he had thought to grab a coat, or at least put on a pair of shoes. He only paused for a moment though, before jumping off the porch and onto the frosted grass, which crunched with each step of his bare feet on the ice-encrusted blades. His destination was not far, and he quickened his pace. He began to shiver, so he crossed his arms in a feeble attempt to ward off the cold that was seeping into his bones.

When he stood before the slave shack, Sammy paused briefly before stepping onto the sloping porch. As he came to the door, the boards creaked loudly, and he very nearly fell through a slot where a board was missing. With his hand shaking from the cold, Sammy knocked on the door. A hearty and warm voice came from inside. "Door's open!"

Sammy was wary when he pushed the door open. The hinges squealed with even his slight touch, but when the door had swung open fully, any apprehension he had was gone. Eli's massive frame stood in the middle of the one-room shack, his ebony face all smiles. A slender woman was bent over in front of the hearth, stoking the embers up into a dancing flame. The woman glanced at Sammy and smiled sweetly before straightening and placing the iron poker to the side. She then turned to Sammy again, saw his lack of coat and shoes, and gasped. "Son, doncha know that yul catch cold standin' out in tha cold wit' nothin' on but yo skin? 'N close that door, yer lettin' all the heat out." Sammy opened his mouth to reply, but was whisked inside the shack before he had the chance to speak, or close the door for that matter. "Eli," the woman said, "git a blanket, he's cold as ice." Eli did as he was told, and produced a large threadbare patchwork quilt that looked as if it had seen better days. The woman snatched it away from Eli and wrapped Sammy up tightly in it. He was instantly warm, and the fabric smelled of tobacco juice, earth, and sunshine.

"Come on ova here 'n git warm'd up," the woman said as she steered Sammy over toward the fire, which was now blazing and popping loudly. "Don' ya got 'ny sense in yo head to put on clothes when ya go outside when it be cold out son?"

Eli smiled and shook his head at his wife's fussing over Sammy, who in turn smiled up at Eli's wife. "Thank you ma'am," he laughed.  
>"Nons'nse son." Eli's wife waved her hand dismissively and leaned over the fire toward a blackened pot that was hanging over the flames. When she took the iron poker to remove the lid, a rich smell that made Sammy's mouth water instantly filled the tiny shack. "Why don' ya stay for supp'r, son? It be Chris'm's aft' all."<p>

Sammy grinned widely and nodded fervently, and Eli and his wife both smiled warmly back at him in return.

Eli's wife then stooped down so that she and Sammy were on eye level. "What yo name, son?"

Sammy thought for a moment, then opened his mouth.

"Sammy. My name's Sammy."

"Sammy…" Eli's wife seemed to turn the name over in her mouth, trying it out to see how it sounded. With a finalizing nod, she reached up her thin, calloused fingers to Sammy's face and ran her fingertips across his smooth and tan cheeks thoughtfully, then she held his face in her rough and weathered hands. "Merry Chris'm's, Sammy."

And he knew that she meant it.

-x-x-x-

It was well past eleven o'clock in the morning when Marion finally opened her eyes, and it took her a whole five seconds to realize that she had completely forgotten that today was Christmas Day. Her eyes went wide, and she gasped and cursed loudly as she sprang out of bed. The cold air made her wish she was still under the warm blankets, but she couldn't think about that now. How could she simply forget about Christmas? And where was that book she got for Sammy… Ah, in the top dresser drawer. She cursed again when she saw that she had failed to wrap it up. Oh well, it didn't matter anymore.

She clambered down the stairs loudly, her bare feet slapping the wood and nightgown flowing out behind her as she hurried to tie her housecoat around her to ward off the chill.

"Sammy!" she called out as she turned into the living room, expecting to find Sammy sitting at the bottom of the tree, "Merry Christmas! I have… your…"

Marion's words faded away quietly until she was silent. Sammy wasn't here. In fact, it looked as if he hadn't even been here. Nothing was touched, and the hearth was cold. Marion's arms fell to her sides and she sighed. _Well of course he wouldn't be here, _she thought to herself, _I did forget Christmas, after all… Who even does that? Look at me, I've ruined Christmas… _

She didn't know it, but Sammy was having the time of his life only a hundred yards or so away. If one would have asked him about Marion, he would have asked, "Marion who?"

-x-x-x-

Sammy was incredibly content. Just sitting and laughing with these people was more than enough to give him peace in the turmoil of his mind. The voices went quiet when Eli's deep, rich laugh rang out in the air, and he felt safe with Eli's wife's arms wrapped protectively around him. With them, there was no such thing as a Confederate States of America. There were no calls for war. He could simply be himself, and he didn't have to worry for the people connected to the voices in his head.

Eli and his wife didn't fully know who this strange white child was that they had let into their home, with his piercing green eyes that seemed to see deep past any facade that was put up. _Th's child be quite strange, _Eli thought to himself as he watched Sammy

sit with his back to the glowing flames of the fire. _I like 'im though._

-x-x-x-

Sammy didn't bother returning to Marion's house until well after the sun had set. The stars were all twinkling brightly in the inky sky, their silver light reflecting off of everything and giving it a magical look.

When Sammy had finally come up from Eli and his wife's shack to the back porch, he opened up the back door of Marion's house as quietly as he could, but the hinges still squeaked loudly. He winced when he heard someone's footfalls coming down the hall toward the back porch, where he was. It was most certainly Marion.

It was. She had been writing letters to her fellow states all day and had not bothered to look much for Sammy after she realized that he was gone. She figured that he wanted some time alone, and frankly, she needed some time herself. Now, she stood in front of Sammy with her arms crossed, frowning.

"Where have you been, son?"

Sammy didn't want to answer, but he knew he had to, so he chose his words carefully. "Nowhere in particular, ma'am. Just around."

"Just around, huh?" Marion frowned even more. "Somehow I don't believe that."

Sammy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Well I was… I was with Eli and his wife…"

"Now you can just stop right there, young man," Marion said sharply. "Eli is a slave, you are the personification of a great nation. You have no business fraternising with the likes of him, ya hear?"

"But-!"

"Don't you 'but' me! You talk back one more time and I'll make you wish you'd never have opened your mouth in the first place!"

Sammy swallowed and nodded, his eyes downcast. His bare feet were all of a sudden quite intriguing.

"Now you get up to your room and don't come out until I say."

Sammy nodded and ran up the stairs and away from Marion as fast as he could. He made sure to not let his angry tears spill until he was alone in his room with the door shut. Something on his bed caught his eye as he made his way to the corner to sit. It was a copy of A Tale of Two Cities, with a note sitting on the cover that read,

_Merry Christmas_

_Love Marion_

Through a new flood of angry tears, Sammy grabbed the book from where it sat on his bed and threw it as hard as he could at the wall, where it smashed into the plaster with a loud _bang_ and clattered to the floor.

Sammy covered his face with his hands, then he covered his ears as he began to whimper. The voices had started again. Oh, how much louder and nastier they had become.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a review, we love getting to read what y'all have to say!<strong>

**Much love and happy reading, **

**Harley and Amanda**


	3. I Wanna Be Free

The secession letters started to come for Marion after the start of the new year. The first was from Sadie Mae, the state of Mississippi, on the ninth of January. The next day, Tony, the state of Florida. The next, Jackson, who personified Alabama. Just over a week later, Marion got Wyatt's letter. The state of Georgia had seceded as well. By the time that the letters had slowed, which was after the start of February, two more states had seceded- Lillian and John, who personified Louisiana and Texas. Marion couldn't be happier, now that she wasn't alone.

Sammy, however, changed more and more with each new addition to the Confederacy. Not only physically, but mentally as well.

The most obvious difference was how he looked. He aged impossibly quick, going from the appearance of a seven-year-old boy to a twenty-year-old man in a matter of days. His body grew stronger by the hour, a reflection of his people's preparation for war. The freckles that had dusted his nose and cheeks only days ago were now nearly completely faded. His boyish looks were replaced with the face of a man, and he had somehow picked up an air of controlled passion that any woman who spoke with him found utterly seductive.

The people of the new states had voices all their own, and they incited new thoughts and feelings in Sammy's mind. His temper became shorter, and he became prone to sudden outbursts that could quickly become terrifying, only for him to settle down as quickly as he had gotten stirred up, and one would never know that he had just screamed unspeakable obscenities at someone. His mannerisms became refined and pointed, and he was soon the very essence of the classic Southern Gentleman. Marion didn't know what to do with this unpredictable man, who was a boy just days ago, who now lived in her house, so she sent him outside to work or run errands to town just so Marion could get away from him. There was a look in his eyes that she didn't like. She didn't want to say it, but she could see a simmering rage in Sammy's eyes, and it unnerved her. She also feared for the day that that concealed rage would come rushing out, drowning anyone and everyone that was in the way of it.

For the most part, Sammy didn't want anything to do with Marion, or any of the other personifications of the States that came to visit often. Unless Marion forced him to stay, then he excused himself and took his leave to the back fields, where he would busy himself with splitting wood for the furnace, caring for the horses on the property, or just walking the fields to watch the slaves work, occasionally helping them. He knew that this was all slave work, but it was the only excuse he really had to get away from all of the prim and proper people that were always in the house nowadays, who always were either demanding things of him or doting on him. When he was out of doors, he could think. About everything that was going on. About his people, about how he had grown so rapidly, about the approaching storm that was sure to be a bloody civil war.

The prospect of war was what Sammy spent most of his time thinking about. He didn't want anyone to die, and he didn't want to be the one to take a life. So what was he to do? He was the personification of a nation! He had to lead his people, to be the example for them, to be their courage for them when their own courage wavered. But… He just didn't want to. No one had asked him, he had just been thrust into this whole situation. No one cared to know what Samuel Lee Jones thought of everything.

He was just a means to an end. The pathway to freedom and liberation, but this 'freedom' and this 'liberation' was far from what Sammy thought the two words meant. Eli had explained it once, and Sammy liked his definition better than what the other states had told him that they meant.

¨Na ya see, Sammy,¨ Eli had said to him once, his voice rumbling deep in his chest, ¨Freed'm be a state o' mind just a much a it be bein' able to do whatev'r ya feel. I may not be free in body, but I be free in spirit.¨ Eli had then pointed a thick finger at Sammy's chest, right over his heart. ¨If ya free in he'e, then ya get to be ok bein a slave. Ain't nobody bin born yet dat c'n put ya heart in bond'ge. Neva forg't dat.¨

-x-x-x-

Alfred paced in the oval office, his hands clasped behind him at the small of his back. ¨You don't understand, Mr. President,¨ he repeated for what felt like the hundredth time this hour, ¨The people don't take this seriously! They honestly don't believe that the South is going to put up any kind of fight at all!¨ His voice was growing more and more strained as the conversation went on. Lincoln sat silently at his desk, his fingers drumming against the dark wood in rapid succession. ¨They don't understand that people will die!¨

Lincoln pursed his lips together and sighed. ¨What am I supposed to tell them?¨

Alfred stopped pacing and hung his head. ¨I honestly don't know. I'm just at a complete loss. How could this even happen in the first place?¨ He resumed his pacing once again, now faster.

Lincoln shook his head and sighed again. ¨You know the same as I. Which is next to nothing.¨ Lincoln pushed his chair back and stood to his feet. Alfred stopped his pacing again and faced him. ¨I fear,¨ Lincoln started, slowly and deliberately, choosing his words carefully, ¨That the people will simply have to watch and wait. They will see the gravity of this in time.¨

Alfred looked at Lincoln in shock. "You can't be serious."

"I am."

¨It'll be too late.¨

¨I know. But they have to see this for themselves.¨

Alfred parted his lips to speak, but no words came.

"We can only tell the American people the same thing so many times before they tire of hearing it every time we speak, and our words lose their value. You know that I'm right in saying this. You've seen it before."

Alfred crossed his arms and sighed shakily. This was his worst nightmare come to light, and he was at a complete loss as to how to address it while keeping the bloodshed to an absolute minimum. Now, with each passing day, both he and Lincoln were being forced to entertain the possibility more and more everyday of waging a war that would tear the country apart, and the irony of this war on the horizon is that while it attempted to reunite the people, as far as Alfred could see, it would tear the nation apart.

"You're right," Alfred replied at length. "I have seen it before. And you're also right in saying that they will see the gravity of this eventually." He turned to face Lincoln head-on, and his words were venomous and cut deeply. "When they see the gravity of this, they'll be faced with the fact that they have the blood of thousands of fathers, sons, and brothers on their hands, and that is something that they will never be able to rid themselves of. The blood of my people will be spilled, and I will never be able to replace that which will be lost! These are my people, do you understand me? My people!"

"You fail to realize that these are my people also, Alfred." Lincoln paused to let his words sink in. Then he slowly sat back down in his chair with a sigh. "I want to prevent the loss of as many as possible, but you and I both know that we can't save everyone." Lincoln waited until Alfred looked him in the eye for his last statement. "We're going to have to sacrifice much to reap the rewards, but the question remains: What are we willing to forsake in order to regain a united nation?"

Alfred ran his fingers through his hair, at his wit's end. Hot tears threatened to well up in his eyes, and he fought them down, but after a few seconds, he let them spill out over his eyelashes and down onto his cheeks. He was done hiding his pain. He just physically couldn't do it anymore.

Alfred's voice wavered as he spoke now. "We must do whatever we must do in order to bring my people back." He met Lincoln's eyes again, his own now hardened. "Our people."

Lincoln smiled, but it was grieved. Alfred attempted to smile back through his tears, but couldn't force his face to comply.

Alfred would not attempt to smile again for a very long time.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter title idea credit goes to the Panic! At The Disco song of the same name. Please read and review, and the next chapter will be up soon! Thank you!<strong>

**Amanda and Harley**


	4. I Believe

"Samuel, do you have any idea what time it is? Get up!" Marion's voice cut through Sammy's dream, which was actually relatively pleasant for once, and he rolled over in annoyance. "I know exactly what time it is," he growled into the pillow, "and I don't need you to tell me when I should be up or not."

Marion wasn't about to take this for an answer, and she strode into the room, throwing the curtains wide open and letting the bright morning sunshine into the dark room. "You have plenty of things to do today, the least of which is greeting the new states. They'll be here at ten sharp, and it's already nearly nine." When Sammy didn't stir, she sighed, clearly annoyed, and threw the bed covers back. "What is wrong with you!" Sammy yelped as he tried to grasp at the covers and catch them, but missed, and ended up curling his fingers around nothing but the cold January air. "It's freezing!"

"Exactly, and the stove is already running low, so run and get some more wood before you get into your suit, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, whatever," Sammy grumbled. "Wait a minute," he added as Marion walked out of the room, "What's this about a _suit_?"

"Don't argue with me, Samuel, not today," Marion called back over her shoulder from halfway down the hallway, "I am not in the mood to deal with an attitude from you. Do as I say, ya hear?"

Sammy rolled his eyes and slid out of the bed, curling his toes underneath him once his feet hit the cold wood floor. He snatched a pair of woolen pants from the foot of his bed and pulled them on over his goosebump-covered legs, then threw on a thick shirt and a jacket, all while muttering and complaining about everything and anything he could think of. He slipped on a pair of boots as he clomped down the stairs, one socked footfall followed by a heavy booted one.

"You know I hate doing all of this," Sammy called out behind him as he walked out the back door.

Marion's call could be heard from the parlor. "I don't care!"

Sammy rolled his eyes and started out for the woodshed. Frosted grass crunched under his feet. His breaths were little puffs of white in the cold air.

Someone called his name. The voice was rich and deep, and rolled smoothly over the cold grass.

_Eli,_ Sammy thought. He almost turned to face him, but decided against it. _I have work to do, I can't be bothered to waste my time with petty talk._

Eli called his name again. The cold wood was rough against Sammy's hands. A splinter cut into his palm. _Don't turn, don't turn. Don't even turn._

"Sammy, it's ben a long time since I saw ya last. Why ain't ya come down ta see us these past coupla days?"

Sammy still didn't respond.

"Sam? Ya alright son?"

Sammy grimaced before finally turning, a smile plastered to his face. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

Eli shrugged his huge shoulders. "I dunno, jus seems ta me that ya ain't yoself."

Sammy smiled sadly. "Lots of things have changed, Eli."

Eli laughed, a loud and roaring thing. "Yo ain't kiddin!" He gestured to Sammy, his massive hands sweeping up from his boots to his fading freckles and straw-colored hair. "Yo bin growin' like a weed, son! I ain't nevah seen nothin' like it."

Sammy chuckled. "Yeah, it's a bit to take in. I'm eighteen now, it's pretty crazy."

Eli's laugh slowed until it turned into a sigh. The two men had grown close, but something had changed. Something was different. Eli just couldn't quite put his finger on it just yet.

"Sam, yo kno yo my friend, now doncha?"

Sammy's stomach dropped, and he paused before he answered. "Of course I do."

Eli nodded his head and crossed his arms. He looked down at his feet for a second before meeting Sammy's eyes again.

"Yo chang'd. Wha happen'd to that lil boy tha I ran into that aftanoon?"

Sammy clenched his jaw. _Why is he asking me this? He has no right… _He cleared his throat. "That little boy died a long time ago." He then reached down and started stacking pieces of wood in his arms.

Eli nodded his head and pursed his lips. He didn't say anything for a moment.

Sammy had nearly filled his arms when he felt Eli take the wood from him. "Let me git thos' fer ya."

"No, Eli, I've got it-"

"I wo't hear it. Let me see em."

Sammy relinquished the wood reluctantly, then stuffed his now numb fingers into his pockets to try and regain some feeling. "Thanks Eli."

Eli smiled. "Wat are friends fo'?"

Sammy didn't know what to say back to him as Eli walked away back to the house, his arms laden with the cold, splintery wood.

Eli's bare feet crunched over the frozen grass.

In Sammy's ears, that crunch was deafening.

-x-x-x-

Alfred leaned back in the chair at his desk, exhausted. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning. He hadn't slept in two days. How could he? War was on the horizon, and he had no clue about what to do. This whole situation had spun completely out of control, and he had lost his grip on his people.

He couldn't do this on his own.

He needed help.

He needed a friend.

Four letters sat on his desk. Three were bound for across the Atlantic, while the last was heading north.

One to Canada.

One to Russia.

One to France.

One to England.

Alfred knew that Matthew would back him, no doubt about it. Ivan would help him in any way that he could. He wasn't so sure about Francis, but if he could just word it right, then he was sure he would have the French flag behind him.

Arthur was the wild card.

It was almost as if Alfred's letter to him was a Hail Mary, a last-ditch effort, a final gasp before the tide of war pulled him under.

There was a chance that Arthur would come to his aid, but then again, it hadn't been long since his own revolution…

There was no predicting the outcome of this letter at all. It could go either way.

Alfred rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sighed. He had no idea what to do. He was completely lost.

-x-x-x-

"Mr. Jones, sir?"

Alfred jerked awake. He had fallen asleep on a couch in President Lincoln's office. He found that since this whole secession had started and he had began to lose sleep, he could fall asleep almost anywhere at any time. "Yeah?" Alfred groaned as he sat up on the couch. He tried to pat his mussed hair down, but gave up quickly.

"You have a letter, sir."

Alfred jumped to his feet. "Now you've got my attention. From whom?"

"Your brother, Matthew."

Alfred grinned widely and strode over to the door, opened it for the messenger, and took the letter eagerly. He didn't even get the door closed completely again before he tore into the envelope and began to read the words with fervor.

_Alfred,_

_I must admit that when I received your letter, I was unsure of how to respond. I have been able to stay current with the news as it concerns the conflict between you and your States, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before you came to me and asked for some kind of help._

_I will say that I was hoping for this to not go as far as it has, and I would be lying if I didn't say that I still hope that bloodshed could be kept at a bare minimum, or better yet, if there could be none at all. _

_However, I know that this has quickly become an unrealistic prayer. _

_Alfred, hear me when I say this: I won't always be able to drop everything to help you get out of whatever messes you've managed to get yourself into. Some things you'll have to learn how to handle yourself, but I don't think that now is the proper time for you to learn that lesson alone._

_Yes, I will grant your request for aid. How could I ever deny it?_

_Always your brother,_

_Matthew_

Alfred read and reread the letter, then folded it and placed it into the breast pocket of his coat. He knew that Matthew would help him, but seeing this solidified and in writing made him feel more at ease.

He knew that he would never have been completely alone in this, but now that Canada's aid was official, he couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief.

-x-x-x-

When the replies to the other three letters that Alfred sent to Russia, France, and England came back, Alfred took them to his office to read.

He opened Ivan's first.

_Alfred,_

_I understand that you are in need of support. Of course I will take your side! Now that you have Russia behind you, there's no need for worry._

_When this is all over, you must come and see my sunflowers. They are going to be absolutely beautiful this spring._

_Best of luck,_

_Ivan_

Alfred smiled. Short, sweet, and to-the-point. That was Ivan.

He set Ivan's letter to one side before opening Francis' letter next.

_Mon Ami,_

_Would love to help you and your cause to quell this rebellion, but I must say that my government cannot possibly be deprived of your South's precious commodities, namely cotton._

_Please give your President and Congress my sincerest apologies._

_Francis Bonnefoy_

_P.S.- A word of advice: Stay away from the guillotine. It never ends well. _

Alfred cursed under his breath. An alliance with the French could have proven to be extremely valuable, but any hope of having their help was gone.

One more letter lay on his desk.

For the longest time, Alfred just stared at it. He tried walking around his office, scrutinizing his ever-growing bookshelf, staring out the window, but nothing could divert his thoughts from that cream envelope that sat on his desk, burning a hole into his mind.

_Just get it over with, _he eventually told himself.

With that thought, he sat down at his desk again, slit open the envelope, withdrew a piece of paper, and read the letter that was scrawled on it in thin script.

_Alfred F. Jones,_

_I must decline your request for aid in the matter concerning the increasing conflict between your States. The southern states have many items that are valuable for trade, and we need these items often and at a reasonable price._

_Sincerest apologies, but this is just good business._

_Regards,_

_Arthur Kirkland, United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland_

Just as Alfred picked up the envelope to replace the letter, a small slip of paper fell out onto the floor by his feet. It was folded into a tiny square, and it piqued his interest. He bent down to pick it up, then unfolded it.

_Alfred,_

_The letter that you just read was my official correspondence. I had no choice in what that letter said, I assure you, and I apologize for the coldness of it._

_I want to take this time, now that I have your attention, to tell you some things that are crucial for you to know, now more than ever. _

_No matter how bad it gets, remember that this is not going to be the end of you. It may feel like this is the end, and I promise that it will at some point, but you can survive this and come out the other side stronger than you were before._

_If it comes to war, you cannot dwell on the atrocities of it. The end goal is to keep your states together, to keep yourself intact. Achieve this at all costs. I have been torn apart into too many pieces to be able to count. I cannot bear to see the same happen to you._

_I have been through this, and I have lived. I came out of it in one piece, metaphorically speaking. I know how much it hurts, believe me. I have survived the pain of being ripped in two. It killed me every minute of every day during your war for independence, knowing that you didn't want me anymore, but I still wanted you. Yes, I had been wrong to you, and I knew it, but it still hurt me beyond measure to see that unrequited fury in your eyes. It hurt me to do what I did to you in the years following your declaration. _

_To do what I'm doing now._

_But I cannot change the mind of my superiors, believe me, I've tried, and they are immovable. _

_If nothing else, know that while you may not have the support of my country, you will always have help from me. I want to help you get through this in one piece. I don't want you to lose your people. _

_This is not your end. _

_This is not your grave._

_This is your dawn._

_This is your beginning._

_Arthur_

Alfred put the letter down on the top of his desk gently. His vision went blurry for a moment, then it cleared. A knot formed in his throat that he couldn't manage to swallow.

He could only think of two things.

The first: _I am not alone in this._

The second: _I can, no, I _will_, survive this._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Alternate endings that happened while writing this chapter… <strong>

**He could only think of two things.**

**The first: **_**I am not alone in this.**_

**The second: **_**Arthur was in love with K-Pop.**_

**Yes, that actually happened. Yay for the writing process, sleep deprivation, and excitement over the start of the Christmas break! Yay!**

**Title credits go to Christina Perri.**

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter, feel free to post a review! They are always greatly appreciated, and ALWAYS freaked out over.**

**Merry Christmas!**


	5. Roll Jordan, Roll

Sammy did his very best to steer clear of Marion's attention, along with that of the other new states. He was too crowded in that house, too cramped. His suit was itchy and hot, despite the cold air that seeped in through the cracks in the windows.

Too many people tried to talk to him, and he didn't know what to say back. All of the talk was of the surely approaching war, along with gathering supplies and fortifying borders. Sammy just wanted to get out of there. He had enough people screaming for war in his mind, so he didn't want to be surrounded by it if he could help it. Marion, however, had other plans for him.

He had nearly managed to slip out of the parlor and into the back hall when she called out to him.

"Samuel!"

Sammy cringed before slowly turning around to face her. Somehow he managed to plaster a sideways grin on his face. "Yes ma'am?"

"Come and meet these states, I don't think y'all have been introduced yet, have you?"

Sammy shook his head and made his way through the crowd to Marion's side. "No ma'am, I don't believe so."

Gesturing to each state, Marion rattled off a string of names, most of which Sammy couldn't quite catch. His mind was elsewhere, and Marion must have noticed, since Sammy caught a subtle elbow in the ribs for not paying attention closely enough.

A string of music began to pick up in the room across the hall, and Sammy jumped on the chance to get away from Marion for a little while, and also to make an impression on some of the new states. He turned to the two women who personified Louisiana and Mississippi, Lilian and Sadie Mae, and extended an arm.

"Ladies," he smiled sweetly, "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the ballroom? I have decided that I am in the mood for a dance, and would like to know if either of you lovely and beautiful ladies would care to join me?"

The two girls looked at each other, grinned, and then each took one of Sammy's arms. He then led them both out and into the ballroom, where the three of them struck up a conversation.

"So," Lilian said as she smoothed the front of her champagne-colored dress, "What's it like to be the most famous man in all of the country? Anyone who is anyone is talking about you." Sadie Mae nodded her head in agreement.

"Well," Sammy remarked, "It's quite a job. I don't get any time to relax and enjoy this turn of events. And if we're being honest here, I could do without all of this talk about war."

Lilian frowned for a moment, then reached out and laced her fingers between Sammy's own. When their eyes met, she asked, "We still on for that dance?"

Sammy smiled and led her out onto the floor. The music was a light melody, and easy to dance to, and for that, Sammy was grateful. He hadn't had too much of a chance to practice any dancing, but once they started, he soon realized that it came easily to him.

As they twirled around the floor, Sammy tried to make conversation.

"So, the other states… How do they feel about all of this?"

Lilian cocked her head to the side. "About all of what?"

"The secession, all the talk of war, you know."

Lilian threw her head back and laughed. "You don't know how to talk about anything else, do you?"

Sammy shrugged. "Give me a break, I'm pretty new at this. And Marion hardly ever lets me talk about anything else."

Lilian laughed again. "You need to lighten up, you're such a downer. But to answer your question," she added, "They're all pretty different. Take Florida." She pointed over Sammy's shoulder to a small man by the punch bowl. "He's pretty neutral, and I have a feeling he only succeeded so he wouldn't be isolated. Texas, on the other hand," Lilian nodded in the direction that they had come from, "is about as gung-ho as anybody. Same with Georgia and Alabama. All of them have gotten real stirred up and riled."

The song had ended, and everyone stopped to applaud the musicians in the back corner. As they exited the dance floor, Sammy asked, "What about you?"

"I'm glad that we can finally fight for the rights that we deserve to have. I'm just sorry that it's blown up to the degree that it has."

Sammy nodded in agreement. "You and me both."

Lilian furrowed her eyebrows and picked up a glass of tea that was sitting on a table nearby. "I just don't understand what those danged Yankees see in the negroes. All this talk about emancipating them and ending slavery…" She took a long sip from the glass. "Who do they think they are for saying such things? I am entitled to my own property just the same as they are."

Sammy hesitated, mulling over her words for a moment.

"Yes… I suppose you're right…"

-x-x-x-

Marion sat at her desk a couple nights later, poring over a stack of papers in the candlelight, but not thinking about them at all. She was thinking about Sammy, and his developing friendship with one of her slaves, Eli. Yes, that was his name. The big, burly one. She had been watching the two of them ever since they had met a little over two months or so ago, and she had finally decided that the two had become too close. Sammy was the personification of the Confederacy, and it was about time that he started acting like it.

The personification of the Confederate States of America could not be seen spending so much time with a negro.

It was inappropriate and unseemly, not to mention embarrassing.

She would have none of it.

Marion sifted through the stack of papers to unearth a folder of significant thickness. She then opened it, flipped through the pages in it for a moment, before finding the one that she was looking for.

Yes, this was his paperwork.

Marion smiled.

This situation would be easily rectified, through the sale of a couple of slaves, one of which went by the name of Eli Harris.

-x-x-x-

Sammy was up early, before the rising of the sun. He wanted to take a ride to town to pick up a couple of things that Marion needed, and he was hoping to be back sometime before noon. If he left now, he'd be able to beat the traffic surrounding the market, since tomorrow was due to be a slave trade day.

His horse was already tacked up and ready to go outside, and Sammy slipped back inside to get the list. While searching Marion's desk for it, he stumbled upon a folder that bore a title that nearly made his heart stop.

In the upper righthand corner, in the cursive and flowy script that was obviously Marion's hand, was written _Market Sales, February 8, 1861._

Sammy's breath caught in his throat, but he forced himself to pick the folder up and open it. Inside, he found five sheets of paper, all listing different slaves. He dropped the folder in shock. The last paper had Eli's name written on it.

_No, there's got to be some mistake,_ Sammy thought as he hastily gathered the papers up with shaking hands. _I'm not reading this right, there's… There's no way… _

He knew he was reading it right. He couldn't believe it. _How could Marion do such a thing? How could she sell Eli? She can't do that… _

But she could, and Sammy knew it.

That's when Sammy got an idea.

_She can't very well sell a slave that she can't find, can she?_

-x-x-x-

The plan was made. Eli was hesitant at first, but when Sammy reassured him that he wouldn't get caught, and even on the off chance that he did, he would have papers on him that secured his safety, then Eli was on board. Eli wanted his wife to come with him, but Sammy told him that it would be too risky.

"Two people are easier to find than just one, I don't want to make it riskier than it already is."

"Sam, I ain't goin nowheres wit'out her."

"But Eli-"

"Sammy, no. One o' these days y'll und'stand why."

Sammy sighed before caving, and the three of them slipped off of the plantation just before sunrise, with Sammy's horse laden with blankets and some food. They were headed to a small barn on a far corner of the property, where Eli and his wife could hunker down until morning, when Sammy would then sneak them away.

They were at the barn within an hour and a half, and Sammy pried the door open as Eli and his wife watched.

The barn was filled with cobwebs and hay, along with some old farm equipment that was covered in a thick layer of dust.

"Sorry it's not anything better, but this is all I can offer."

"Son," Eli said, "This be mor' than I c'n ask ya for. How do I thank ya?"

Sammy shook his head. "You say thank you, that's how."

Eli smiled. "Th'n thank ya."

Sammy smiled back. "Now get in there before Marion notices I'm gone and gets suspicious."

Sammy took the blankets inside and settled Eli and his wife in for the day following night. As he stood by the door, he took one last look in before saying, "I'll be back soon."

With that, he drew the doors closed and lowered a wooden board, effectively securing the doors. He sighed shakily, ran his fingers through his hair, and withdrew a cigarette and matchbook from his pocket. He lit it shakily, then took a long drag. The smoke filled his lungs, and he held his breath for a few seconds before slowly blowing a stream of smoke from his lips. He inhaled sharply through his nose before raising the cigarette to his lips again.

_Am I sure this is the right thing to do? Am I making this worse by doing this? What happens if I get caught? If _they _get caught? What will people say if they find out? What do I say? How do I keep this under wraps? Marion has got to know that this was me, it has my name written all over it, I mean, who else would do this?_

He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette with a finger, then raised it to his lips again. With the quiet, the voices of his people came back into his mind. More talk of the new states, growing anger with the North, and as always, cries for war. He had come to the conclusion that he would never be able to escape these voices for as long as he was a nation, and he then decided to listen to them, at least for the moment.

_Their requests aren't all that unreasonable, _he decided, _I mean, all they want is to be able to live their lives the way that they want, right? How is that so bad?_

Someone yelled something, and the voice carried over the trees to where Sammy was standing. The voice dragged him out of his own thoughts, and he cursed at the closeness of it. He stomped out his cigarette and ran to his horse, mounted it, and then galloped away from the barn toward the main house.

He would be back after sundown to check on Eli. All that was left to do now was to act as naturally as possible until then, which he knew would be easier said than done.

-x-x-x-

Sammy managed to make it through the day without incident, but he tried to steer as clear away from Marion as he could without raising suspicion. That actually was quite simple, seeing that Marion was busy writing her sister Olivia, who was the personification of North Carolina, in an attempt to convince her to join the Confederacy. Sammy was silently grateful that she was away from him all day, and that made his job much easier.

He busied himself with writing letters of his own, to each of the states already in the Confederacy, mostly introducing himself and clearing an avenue for discussion for the future. If there was going to be war, Sammy figured he might as well start getting ready for it now, and if there wasn't going to be one, then he would be well known by his states anyway. He left the letters downstairs later in the afternoon, then busied himself with listening to the voices of his people and writing down their main ideas and complaints. So far, he had the same things written down that he had heard earlier, but he decided that it was still good to write them down. That way he could have something to show the other states when he met with them later on, that clearly outlined the thoughts and needs of people outside of their own borders.

Supper time came earlier than Sammy expected, and he was not looking forward to another awkwardly silent meal with Marion, but he put his leather-bound notebook away in a drawer anyway and clambered down the steps, his footfalls echoing through the stairwell and hall.

It was a few minutes into the meal of greens, pork chops, and beans when Marion spoke.

"So what do you think of the new states?"

"They're lovely, Marion."

"I agree. That Lilian girl sure is a character, isn't she?"

"Yes Marion."

Silence fell once again. Sammy broke it a few minutes later.

"How's Olivia doing?"

"Oh she's doing fine, Samuel. She's still hesitant about seceding, but that's completely understandable."

"Are any other states considering joining?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Besides North Carolina, there's Arkansas, Tennessee, and Virginia."

"Do they sound serious?"

"I believe so, but they're still reserved about the whole deal. Again, completely understandable."

"Yes, it is."

Silence again. It wasn't broken until the plates had been taken up, and Sammy had already excused himself from the table.

Marion called out to Sammy from where she was still sitting. "Oh, Samuel, I nearly forgot to mention this to you."

Sammy stopped in the doorway of the dining room and turned to face Marion. "What is it?"

"I meant to bring it to your attention earlier, but time got away from me. One of the old abandoned barns in the west corner of the property managed to burn down this morning, you might want to look into it and make sure that it wasn't the work of some careless kids."

The color left Sammy's face.

He put out a hand to steady himself against the doorframe.

He tried to swallow the rock that had formed in his throat.

His voice wavered.

"I… I'll be sure to look into it."

Marion smiled. "Good boy. Now go and tell someone to put more wood in the stove in the sitting room, it's freezing in there."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Reviews make us super happy, so feel free to leave one! <strong>

**Amanda and I really appreciate every single one of you lovely people that read our stories, and we hope that y'all all have a very merry Christmas!**


	6. A Casual Affair

Alfred knocked on the door to the Oval Office. Spring was now getting established, and the start of April had been a welcome change from the cold of winter. The sweet air had worked its way into every room of the White House, and curtains had all been thrown to the side to welcome the morning sunlight. Alfred took no notice of this, however. His mind was preoccupied with a heavy message.

A voice from inside called out. "Enter."

Alfred pushed the door open, eased himself in, and shut the door softly behind himself. He stood by the door until President Lincoln looked up from his desk. He was writing a letter, and when he noticed Alfred, he put his pen down with a smile. "Alfred," he said, "It's good to see you."

"You as well, Mr. President. I am afraid, however, that I have some bad news that needs your immediate attention."

Lincoln sighed and removed his glasses. "Alfred, you know how much I hate it when you walk into my office and say that to me." He paused before he looked up to meet Alfred's gaze. "But let's get it over with."

Alfred nodded and pulled a chair across the room so that he could sit directly across from the President.

"Sir, there's been talk that the Confederacy-that's what they call themselves-has a personification. Now this is just talk, I haven't confirmed it yet, but I think that you should be aware of this."

Lincoln sat up in his chair. "A personification? What do you know?"

"From what I've heard, he's young, driven, passionate. Typical for a new nation. Also, if I were to draw my own conclusions, unstable."

"Why would you say that?"

"Well sir, his people are in turmoil. They call for war, they're wishing harm on their own families. Who wouldn't be at least a little unstable with all of that in your head?"

Lincoln nodded. "I see. Anything else?"

Alfred shifted his weight in his chair. "Sir, can… Can I speak freely?"

"Of course, Alfred. What is it?"

Alfred leaned forward and rested his elbows on Lincoln's desk. "Sir, this personification… He calls himself Samuel Lee _Jones_. I've heard that he's claiming that he's _my brother_. There's also talk that he's violent, unpredictable. A womanizer as well." Alfred cleared his throat. "He's dangerous, sir. I don't like where this is going, and if he's as unstable as I think he may be, then I'm afraid that there's a slim possibility of negotiating a state of peace."

Lincoln raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. "I see. So this man is the kind of a man that is not to be underestimated."

"That is correct sir."

"You don't like this man, do you Alfred?"

Alfred shook his head. "No sir, I do not."

Lincoln looked Alfred in the eyes. "Then you must get to know him."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. You must get the facts straight about this Samuel Lee Jones, and the only way to do that is to get to know him. Send him a letter, arrange a meeting, something. Just hear what he has to say, and you never know, but you may be able to get somewhere with this man."

Alfred sighed. "You really think that'll work?"

Lincoln smiled. "Yes Alfred, I do."

-x-x-x-

Samuel sat on the back porch of Marion's house, his back resting on a whitewashed column. The morning sunshine bathed his skin, and the warm breeze tousled his hair, which had grown long enough to cover the tops of his ears. The boyish freckles that had onced peppered his nose and cheeks had all but faded completely. The rough wood of the column dug into the skin of his bare back, and his calloused fingers played distractedly with the suspenders that hung from the waist of his pants. Bare toes brushed the growing blades of the new grass. With his eyes closed and a slight smile on his lips, Samuel was able to have a moment of much-needed solitude for the first time in a month. He took a deep breath, sucking the sweet air into his lungs, then blew it out softly out of sunburnt lips.

His men were attacking the Union garrison at Fort Sumter, and were faring magnificently.

War had finally come to his doorstep, and Samuel couldn't be happier. The North was about to finally see that he and his people meant business, and were not to be trifled with.

Everything was as it should be, and life was good. Yes, life was good indeed.

-x-x-x-

Alfred slammed the telegram on Lincoln's desk. "They've gone and done it!"

Lincoln looked up from the papers that he was reading and picked up the telegram. "Who's gone and done what?"

"The Confederacy. They've attacked Fort Sumter!"

Lincoln raised his eyebrows, read the telegram, and removed his glasses slowly. "Dear God in heaven…"

"If that's not a clear declaration of war, then I don't know what is."

Lincoln furrowed his brows in a frown. "This is a pretty clear message indeed."

Lincoln pushed his chair back and stood to his feet.

"What are you going to do, sir?"

"I am going to send supplies to Fort Sumter. If I send troops, I will be seen as the aggressor, and that is the very last thing that I need right now. If I send aid to our men down there, then that leaves the choice to the Confederacy. If they allow the aid to come, then that completely dismantles the legitimacy of their secession. If they fire on our supply ships, then that makes them the aggressors. Either way, we either dodge both the literal and proverbial bullets, or unite the states against the South."

-x-x-x-

"Samuel!"

Marion's voice jerked Samuel awake. He had fallen asleep against the column on the back porch, and he was less than happy about being disturbed. _Maybe if I stay quiet, then she'll actually leave me alone for once._

"Samuel!"

Samuel yelled over his shoulder, "Oh for the love of God, what is it?"

Marion eased the screen door open slowly. "Samuel… One… One of the colts got out of the paddock and I think he headed out toward the southern fields, I need you to go find him."

Samuel groaned and got to his feet. "Fine, since there's absolutely _no other person_ on this entire plantation that could _possibly_ do it."

Marion stood stock-still in the doorway, staring at Samuel. He stood in front of her and looked down into her face. He had grown to be a good four inches taller than Marion, and she was starting to not like where this situation was going.

"You're in my way."

Marion couldn't move. There was something about the way that he spat out the words that made her skin crawl.

"I said," Samuel wrapped his fingers around Marion's arm as tight as a vice, and she grimaced. He yanked her to the side and out of his way, so that he pushed her hard into the doorframe. "Move." Samuel then strode past her and through the house, then through the front door and out of sight.

Marion sighed shakily and slid down against the doorframe. She covered her mouth with a hand and managed to choke back a flood of tears. She was sure that she would wake up with five finger-shaped bruises on her upper arm.

_What's going on? What just happened?_

-x-x-x-

Alfred gazed into the mirror in his bedroom as he ran a comb through his sandy hair. Tonight was sure to be a big night. After all, tonight was the night of the biggest party that the White House had seen in years. Every Union general and his family would be there to enjoy an evening of good food and fine wine after a strategy meeting that the President was holding. Despite the fact that it had been pulled together on such short notice, this party was sure to not disappoint.

A glance at his watch forced Alfred to put the comb down on his dresser and tie his tie as he descended the stairs of his wing of the White House. The party was clear across the grounds, in the ballroom that overlooked the gardens, but if he hurried, then he'd make it by four o'clock, which was when the meeting was due to start. Maybe then they'd come up with a plan to squash this Southern rebellion into nothingness once and for all.

-x-x-x-

Samuel stepped out of the cab about three blocks away from the White House. Marion had told him about the party (he didn't bother to ask how she found out), and so he decided to pay Alfred a little visit. He knew that it would be strictly regulated as to who would be allowed inside, but he figured he would be able to get himself in. He was a smart man, after all.

With a tug on the bottom of his suit's jacket, he started the short walk to the White House's doors. He knew exactly which back door he would go for, and once he was in, that was when the fun would begin.

It only took about five minutes before he saw the lights of the ball from the street. A quick glance confirmed the information that he had been given: Security was lacking, but especially in the eastern entrance. There was only one guard that he could see, but he was sure to be armed. This little detail wouldn't prove to be a problem.

It was nearly eight o'clock, and the lawn was covered with the blanket of night. The moon was hidden behind a veil of thick clouds. Not a single star's light could pierce the dark.

Samuel walked nonchalantly around the grounds, then entered around the back, easily slipping past a couple of guards that were less than watchful. His only resistance would come when he would try to enter the eastern door.

The guard was nearly the same size as Samuel, and Samuel caught him by surprise as he tried to climb the stairs.

"Sir, you're not supposed to be here! I'll have to ask you to leave!"

Samuel looked up and feigned shock. "I'm sorry, I just stepped out for some fresh air, my wife is waiting for me inside. She's quite impatient."

The guard put out a hand to stop Samuel when he tried to climb the steps again. "Sir, I'm only going to ask you to leave one more time. You're not supposed to be here."

Samuel put his hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, relax. But have you got a light?" He fished a cigarette from the pocket of his jacket. "I'm dying for a smoke."

The guard paused in thought, then slowly pulled a matchbook from his pocket. With a wary eye on Samuel, who met his gaze unwaveringly, he struck the match against the wall. As he climbed the steps, the orange glow cast sharp shadows on Samuel's face. He stuck the cigarette between his teeth and leaned forward into the match. Samuel smiled, and in the dim light, his eyes were hauntingly cold.

Just before the guard could pull the match away, Samuel threw one swift and strong punch with the heel of his hand up into the guard's nose. He felt the nose snap, and the guard fell backward onto the ground. The guard moaned and clutched his face, which was already covered in shining crimson. Samuel stood over his body and took one long drag on the cigarette. He looked down on the body of the guard, blew a lungful of smoke down at him, and tossed the cigarette onto his chest.

"Thanks for the light, my friend."

With that, Samuel smoothed his hair with one hand and opened the door. Golden light streamed past him, and he slipped into the White House. He was sure to lock the door behind him.

A crowd of people was gathered before him, all either sitting at tables in an adjoining room, crowding around massive bowls of pink punch, or dancing on the dance floor in front of him.

Samuel scanned the room for Alfred, but he couldn't see him immediately. He knew he had to blend in divert any suspicions, and when he spotted a young redheaded girl that was standing alone in a nearby corner of the room, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

He was at her side a moment later. He wrapped his arm around her waist and spun her around so that she faced him. The girl gasped.

"Oh my," Samuel said, "Did I startle you?"

The girl looked up at Samuel and said nothing. She only swallowed and nodded.

"My dear, I apologize for that." He smiled, and extended a hand for the girl to take. "How about I make it up to you? Care for a dance?"

The girl nodded, and Samuel led her out onto the dance floor. She was like putty in his hands. All smiles, giggles, and squeals. When the song finished, he took her by the hand off the dance floor and to a chair. There, he kissed her hand and apologized for the fact that he had to leave, but he had some business to take care of. The girl grinned widely and said that it was completely understandable, and with that, Samuel disappeared into the crowd.

As he pushed his way through the sea of people, he looked for Alfred again, and for the second time, he came up empty. That's when he thought, _If I was Alfred, I wouldn't stay in this party for long. I would probably find a balcony or go into the garden… _Samuel spotted a door that led onto the outdoor balcony from the second floor. Samuel smiled. _Perfect._

He climbed the marble steps quickly and slipped through the door, silently and unnoticed. Resting his hands on the railing was Alfred.

Samuel pulled a cigarette and match from his pocket, lit his cigarette, and watched Alfred's back as he smoked it silently. Alfred didn't move. Samuel was the one who broke the silence. His voice was sweet as honey, his Southern twang clear.

"Something on your mind?"

Alfred turned to face Samuel. "Yeah, a lot actually." He waved a hand at the party inside as Samuel walked slowly up to Alfred's side. "This whole situation with the secession of the Southern states… I just don't see how this can all happen so fast." Alfred turned and rested his hands on the railing again and sighed. "I wasn't thinking about it, and it all just… Happened."

Samuel took another drag on his cigarette. He then leaned over so that his lips brushed against Alfred's ear. Alfred froze, his breath caught in his throat. Smoke blew over Samuel's lips and into Alfred's ear.

"Are you thinking of me now?"

Samuel chuckled and slapped Alfred on the arm heartily, then drew back. Alfred couldn't move. _There's no way… It can't be him… _

Alfred whipped around to face Samuel. As he turned, the words spilled over his lips like water. "You son of a-!" He stopped mid-thought.

Samuel was gone. A still-smoking cigarette lying on the railing by Alfred's hand was the only evidence that anyone had been out on the balcony with him.

Alfred wasted no time. He strode through the door and into the ballroom. He searched the crowd, but he came up with nothing. _A man can't just disappear… No, there he is!_

Alfred spotted Samuel walking casually through the crowd downstairs, looking as if he belonged there. He watched Samuel slither through the bodies, but when he passed a young red-headed girl that was sitting on a sofa, he leaned over and gently kissed her on the cheek. He then whispered something in her ear that made her hide her face, but when she lowered her hands, she was blushing and grinning widely. Samuel bowed his head to her and left her, and he headed for one of the back doors. Just before he reached it, he turned and looked up to the second floor. His eyes locked onto Alfred's, and the most sickening of smiles was spread over his face. Without breaking his stare, he reached into his pocket and removed a pair of… Glasses? Alfred frowned, then patted his suit in an attempt to find his own glasses. He clenched his jaw at the realization: Samuel had stolen his glasses out of the inside pocket of his suit.

Alfred could see Samuel laugh as he pocketed Alfred's glasses, and could have sworn that he saw Samuel wink just before he slipped out the door.

Alfred was still for a moment, but he gathered his senses quickly enough. He pulled a guard to the side and whispered the situation in his ear. The guard nodded and left, and Alfred could hear the voices of other guards as they went to search for Samuel.

Somehow though, Alfred knew that they wouldn't find him.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! Reviews make us so happy, so feel free to leave one for us. We love and appreciate every single one of y'all!<strong>

**Title credit goes to Panic! At The Disco.**

**Love, Amanda and Harley**


End file.
